Hávamál
by Zegepraal
Summary: Earl Lukas Bótheiðrsen is a proud man, and Mathias will always admire that about him. The man is unbendable as much as he is unbreakable. A being of pure, solid stone, polished free of any imperfections. He may be cold, even inhospitable at his worst, but he is still the sturdy foundation upon which Mathias can place his feet. Without Lukas, he would be a drowning man.


Mathias stands with unsteady feet on the uneven ground, staring out across the open field, eyes twitching this way and that, searching. Blood trickles steadily down his face, dripping down from his hands and his clothes to meet the slough of red mud beneath his feet.

"Lukas," he called out, slipping his axe into his belt and twisting his head around. "Lukas!" Men around him begin to stare.

Around him, the living and the dead mingle until he can no longer tell the difference, not that this matters to him. He only has to find Lukas, nothing else matters. Mathias wasn't concerned because he doubted Lukas himself. On the contrary, despite his smaller size, he has no doubt in his mind of Lukas's capability in battle. Lukas will always throw himself into the thick of battle and come out practically unscathed, as if sheer force of will is able to protect him even after his shield has been splintered, his armor rent, his sword cast aside upon the wet, red earth. Even covered in sweat and grime and the blood of dead, nameless men, Lukas maintains the subtle grace and coolness that makes Mathias weak at the knees. Besides, to do anything other than sing praises of the young earl's name would be a practical sacrilege in Mathias's own mind.

No, Mathias does not worry because he doubts Lukas; he worries because Lukas is always beside him after a battle, he always finds his way back to him, but now he is nowhere to be found.

Mathias closes his eyes and sees a pale body lying limp in the bloody earth. He sees a filthy, matted braid and an open mouth, _a still chest, limbs hacked away, strewn across the ground, blank eyes, wide, open to the sky, unseeing, unable to call out for help because he is already dead, dead, dead, oh Óðinn, father of all that is good in this world, what have I done to deserve this?_

He trips and falls to his knees.

"Mathias? Is that you?"

Mathias turns in the direction of the voice. Far away from the piles of bodies at the center of the field, there is a tree. The tree sits atop a small hill, and under the tree sits Lukas, looking relatively unscathed.

 _Thank the gods._

Lukas waves him over, looking as alert and dignified as ever as he rests against the base of the tree. Mathias kneels before him, smiling brightly, relieved beyond words. He finds it strange that he would drift so far from the battlefield, but he does not ask, and Lukas offers no explanation.

"Come here then, let me look at you." Lukas commands as he places a bloody hand under his jaw. Mathias resists the urge to lean into his touch. _Focus._

"My face is charming as ever, I hope," he says lightly, "but let us get on to more pressing matters, my friend! Why are you sitting all the way over here? Did something happen?"

"That isn't relevant. You have wounds that need tending to." Lukas sits further up and winces almost imperceptibly. Only then does Mathias notice the unnatural bend in his left leg. Broken, then. Broken is better than dead, in any case.

"Lukas, your leg-"

"My leg is fine, thank you for your concern," Lukas says in a tone that suggests the topic is not up for discussion.

"Let me at least take a look."

"Will you not take me at my word?"

"My lord, please."

Lukas looks unsettled. "Don't call me that. Just let me wrap your head-"

"No." Mathias sits down in the patchy grass and reaches out to grab at his ankle, and must pull a bit harder than he had intended, because Lukas bites out a curse, which he never does, and slaps his hand away out of reflex.

"Is this what you call fine?" Mathias tries to keep his tone light, but it comes out sounding more accusing than joking.

Lukas clenches his jaw and lets out a quiet, even breath, sounding irritated. "A horse. It was a horse. I was knocked down and it stepped on my leg before I could move out of the way. I walked to this tree afterwards to rest a moment."

"You walked." Mathias raises a brow. Lukas waves his hand dismissively in response, attempting to pull his lame leg away from the other man's calloused hands.

"Fine, I didn't walk, I dragged myself away, because I can't get up. Are you satisfied now? It is of no consequence, anyway, as I am not hurt. It is fine now."

"No it isn't. You're being childish," Mathias knows he is overstepping his bounds, but he doesn't care. "Please let me see your leg."

Lukas scowls. "I am your earl. Do not treat me as if I were a child."

"I didn't say that you were a child; I said you were acting like one," Mathias gives him a wry smile, unaffected by the severity in his voice, and props the crooked leg up on his knee. He half expects Lukas to make some biting comment or to accuse him of condescension, but he remains uncharacteristically obedient, straightening his leg as best he can under Mathias's concerned gaze. It's almost unnerving.

"Now hold still."

Lukas does not scream when Mathias sets the bone, and for that he is relieved, but each carefully muffled gasp of pain is a dagger in his heart nonetheless.

* * *

Earl Lukas Bótheiðrsen is a proud man, and Mathias will always admire that about him. He holds his head high through the worst of situations. When he is in pain, he does not allow himself to so much as flinch. The man is unbendable as much as he is unbreakable. A being of pure, solid stone, polished free of any imperfections. He may be cold, even inhospitable at his worst, but he is still the sturdy foundation upon which Mathias can place his feet. Without Lukas, he would be a drowning man.

But now even Lukas is wearing thin, Mathias can see it in his posture, even if he himself refuses to. He carries himself like a dead weight. The leg doesn't help, as he insists on walking instead of riding in the cart with the other injured. When Mathias asks, he says it no longer bothers him, but Mathias knows otherwise.

He knows because for all his pride and courage, Lukas fears but one thing. He is terrified of showing weakness.

"Your braid is looking worse for the wear, my lord," Mathias says to Lukas as they walk, taking care not to show concern in his smile, "let me comb your hair, here, in the cart! Come on, it will be fun! I'd like to say I'll not damage it further, at least, but I will make no promises."

Lukas scoffs in response. "I can see what you're trying to do. I am fine; I have already told you that it does not bother me."

"Yes, and I have already told you that I know you're lying." It's almost relaxing, this common ground that they find often through their arguments. Familiar territory. Something that Matthias can work with.

"Walking on a broken leg will only make it take longer to heal," He continues helpfully, blind to the dirty looks that Lukas shoots at him.

"It is necessary."

A moment of silence passes. Then, despite their situation, a smug grin settles on Mathias's features. Lukas met his eyes in silent challenge, daring him to contradict his words.

"It is necessary," He insists.

"You know that I'm right. You would admit it if you weren't so stubborn and serious all of the time."

"A strong leader must set an example for his men. He cannot lead effectively if he is not respected."

"Wise words indeed, but this strong leader that you speak of, he cannot lead at all if he is dead, can he?"

* * *

When they arrive at the ships, the relief in Lukas's face is visible. He takes his position at the bow of the ship and they cast off, sailing north towards home.

When Lukas refuses food, Mathias attributes it the rolling of the waves beneath the boat. When he is flushed, the sun is to blame. When his leg continues to swell, Mathias isn't sure what to find fault with, so he dismisses it as a temporary affliction, because Lukas does not complain, and therefore he must be improving.

By the time they dock, Lukas can no longer walk on his own and does not refuse Mathias's arm when it is offered. It is only at this moment that he begins to truly worry.

* * *

The people of Svǫlver swarm the harbor like flies drawn to honey, talking excitedly amongst themselves. Some awaited husbands, others wives, brothers, sisters, even parents or children, yet all crowded around the docks to witness the return of their beloved earl, their great and victorious leader that all held some measure of respect for, despite his young age. Mathias could never blame them for it.

At last they pushed past the crowds to their home, where Emil was standing waiting at the door.

"Lukas!"

"Hello, little brother," says Lukas, patting the top of his head with an unsteady hand. "Did you behave well while I was gone? Were you a polite guest in Berwald's home?"

The young boy nods furiously, as if the denial of Lukas's wishes would incur the wrath of Thor himself. He has that sort of effect on people, this Mathias knows better than anyone.

It doesn't take long for Emil to notice what is out of place. "Is there something wrong with your leg, brother? What happened?" He asks in awe, and Mathias knows that he is a naturally curious child, as most other young boys his age, and has little understanding of the consequences of his words, but the boy needs to learn that there is an appropriate time and place for every question, and this really isn't an example of either.

"Don't ask stupid questions," Lukas says sharply as Mathias answers, "He injured it today in the raid, but of course he is too stubborn to admit it." Lukas glares at him from over his shoulder, looking betrayed. "The bone is still setting. Don't touch."

The boy does it anyway, of course, if only to satisfy his curiosity, and Lukas flinches at his touch. Mathias pretends not to notice. They settle into an uncomfortable silence.

"How did it happen?"

Lukas turns abruptly, twisting out of Mathias's grasp.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"To bed. I am tired from the long journey." It isn't a lie, at the very least. His eyes are heavy-lidded and glassy, his face flushed.

"Let me help you up at least," He says, scrambling up from the bench to offer his arm.

"No. I can manage on my own."

Mathias smiles at him. "I do not believe that."

He expects Lukas to fight back. He braces himself for some clever retort, some biting comment, a well-thought argument detailing every way in which he is wrong for saying such a thing. Instead, he just looks stricken. He puts his arm down, Lukas stumbles away, and Emil, ever the passive bystander, looks on with wide, innocent eyes.

* * *

Hours later, Lukas all but falls through his doorway and lowers himself onto the floor. Mathias, as with everything else, jumps to his side immediately.

"Lukas? Are you-"

"You were right," he says, breathing heavily. Mathias presses a palm to his forehead and frowns.

"You should have told me that you had a fever."

"Don't have time for fevers. I thought if I just ignored it-"

"Yes, yes, of course you did. Come on then, into bed with you."

* * *

"N-nothing has changed since Ribe, has it?" Lukas mutters once he has settled. He shakes with fever. "You are still drowning. I'm sorry I can do nothing to help." He pauses to a shaky breath.

 _He's talking nonsense_. Mathias is caught between amusement and concern. Of all the moments he has shared with Lukas over the many months they have been together, this is the most human-the most vulnerable-he has ever seen him. "You're feverish, Lukas. I'm not drowning, I am right here."

"Yes you are. I-I can see it in your eyes. Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry I can't-"

"Shh," Mathias whispers, more than a little surprised at just how vulnerable his fearless leader has become. "Don't trouble yourself on my account."

Lukas calms after that, but he takes a long moment to respond. "I would like to say the same to you, but… but I know you will not listen," he says, now half-asleep, breathing growing even. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards into a ghost of a fond smile; Mathias beams down at him in return.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"You're smiling."

Lukas's relaxed expression melts away, once again becoming a carefully blank mask, carved from stone, cold as ice. Mathias wishes he hadn't said anything.

"You said it yourself; I am feverish," says Lukas. Then he closes his eyes and falls asleep, and the conversation is over.

* * *

Moments later, Emil pokes his head in through the doorway.

"Is brother going to be alright?"

"Go back to bed, Emil. He'll be fine." Mathias casts him a weary smile, pausing a moment before adding, "I will take care of him." The boy nods gravely.

"I know."

It's a marvel to behold, the blind faith of a child. Simultaneously awe-inspiring and terribly, terribly frightening.

* * *

A/N: Ugh, I am really not too happy with this. These boys will just not cooperate with me, but the more I changed it the worse it got, so I think this is good as it's ever going to get. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed it at the very least. Sorry if the diction gets a little too flowery, but I was trying to get it as close to that archaic manner of speaking as I could for like, an immersive effect. Or something like that. Let me know how it went! Constructive criticism is always appreciated because honestly I've got no fucking idea what I'm doing. Not a clue.


End file.
